


The Empty Hearse

by unofficialsherlockian



Series: The End is the New Beginning [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, the return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unofficialsherlockian/pseuds/unofficialsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's Return. Everything was not what Sherlock had expected when he made his return to his friends. After nearly two years, everything had changed, especially things between him and John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game Resumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Thought I'd let you know I'm back._

Lestrade hadn't intended on starting off his day coming into his office to see a man zip-tied to his chair. He hadn't planned on hearing from the same man that he would have killed Lestrade on the day Sherlock died, if Sherlock hadn't jumped form Saint Bart's roof. Greg Lestrade hadn't even remotely thought that this day, nearly a year later after Sherlock Holmes' death, would start with the beginnings of the means to clear the young man's name.

It was 6 am, and Lestrade already wished for a drink.

 

It probably was nothing, and yet, anything connected to Sherlock Holmes was never nothing. Lestrade would speculate that night about the events of today, but right now he was listening to this man sputter on about Moriarty being real, and Sherlock Holmes never having been a fake. Despite his superintendent standing well behind him, Lestrade could almost feel the man going white with surprise.

'So, we tried to arrest the wrong man, chased him all through the night on through the streets on the biased observations of an incompetent sergeant, drove the man to jump of a seventy foot building and kill himself-' Lestrade swallowed, '-and the papers are still printing that the man's a bloody fake and deserved what he got.'

'Lestrade, _hold your tongue_.'

'I'd rather not, Sir. I'd trusted the man for over five years, even after his bloody death, I still trust him. And now we're getting proof that he's not a fake.' Lestrade stood. 'I'm just glad Donovan quit the day after he jumped. If you'll excuse me, sir.' And Lestrade walked out. He didn't care if he would be fired or not. He'd always believed in Sherlock Holmes, even if he couldn't be him. He had to act out of respect to the law, to the damn rules, and it had gotten Sherlock Holmes killed.

Lestrade was done with that. If telling what he believed and knew to the truth would get him fired, he didn't care. 

He was twenty minutes away from Scotland Yard when the ringtone from his phone sounded and Lestrade put the mobile to his ear. 'Sir?'

'Another one's turned up. Zip-tied to a urinal in the men's room. Looks like whoever left him there bashed his head on the pipe first, but he's talking. Said he was supposed to kill someone, same as yours. Holmes' landlady, apparently.'

There was a long pause between the two men. 'What do you want me to do, Sir?' 

There was a long sigh. 'On this case, right now, nothing. You're gonna go to a funeral home. Hearse's turned up empty there; they're thinking foul play. Go and take a look, let me know what you find.'

'Yes Sir.'

Lestrade was definitely not expecting his day to go by like this.

 

'Thought I'd let you know, I'm back.'

Mycroft looked up. 'Good to know.' He sighed. 'Things have changed in your absence, Sherlock. Just to let you know.'

Sherlock stepped into the room, but only just. Mycroft registered the distance between them, one that didn't seem likely to ever close and then peered at his younger brother. 'Your detective has a case. And I believe his super got your little message. He's resigning at the end of the week.' 

'Good.' Sherlock gave a small nod. 'I don't want to know about the rest. I can handle this on my own.'

'Sherlock-'

Sherlock turned away from the door and back to his brother. Mycroft made a seemingly random gesture, and a strange look. 'It's good to see you after all this.'

 

Lestrade sighed as his phone vibrated. He wanted to get this case over and head to the nearest pub as quickly as he could.

The number was blocked, but the inspector read the text anyways. 

There was an address that Lestrade was unfamiliar with, and words that made his stomach turn. _Case. Solved. Youll want my help inspector. It's inconvenient but come all the same. I know you better._

The first three sentences were identical to an email Lestrade had gotten, more than six years ago, on the day that the inspector had met Sherlock.

He couldn't believe it. Sherlock Holmes was dead. It _must_ be a coincidence. Lestrade pulled over into a car park and put his hands over his face. This was some stupid prank, there was no way this was happening. Sherlock, his Sherlock, the brilliant young man, was dead, and mostly thanks to Lestrade. He couldn't take this, not today on top of the events of the morning. 

Lestrade's thumb hovered over the delete button when the mobile vibrated in his hand. Lestrade checked the text, unthinkingly, not even hoping, not even daring to think-

_It's been a long year Lestrade. I would hope youd want to welcome me back and tell me how stupid I am. Case. Come._

And with shaking hand, Lestrade put the address in his GPS and prepared for something he hadn't ever allowed himself to hope for. A miracle.

He didn't want to have hope. He wanted to be cautious and calm, but his brain was working overdrive. Just say Sherlock Holmes was alive. Lestrade could apologize, tell him how he'd believed him him, how much he and John had missed him, how Sally had quit after she'd heard of the man's death-Sherlock would like that.

Lestrade contained himself as he stepped out of his car. Even if this wasn't truly Sherlock Holmes himself, something big was happening, the two men he and his super had found were proof enough of that.

The game, it seemed, as Sherlock would have said, was on.


	2. The Game Resumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Molly each find a very alive Sherlock.

Work at the morgue had become long and, dare Molly think it, _boring_ without Sherlock Holmes popping in and livening it up with some experiment or need to see a body. Molly Hopper even missed the times when he would come in, ignore her, and talk to himself in a flurry of excitement. Sherlock Holmes had been full of life and excitement, and had brought those traits to a place filled with the dead.

Sighing, Molly opened her locker to store away her lab coat for the night. The door swung open, and in the reflection of the mirror, Molly saw the image of a tall black man flash before her eyes.

Unthinking, she spun on her heel, her fist making contact with a coat that felt...all too familiar. Molly frowned and her hand was grabbed gently as she looked up into the face of Sherlock Holmes.

'Hello, Molly,' Sherlock said quietly.

Molly may have been able to restrain herself if he'd looked sad. Or guilty. Or had no expression at all. But Sherlock had that stupid smug look on his face, the look he adapted when he'd outsmarted someone he thought to be not particularly bright, the one Sherlock put on when he felt especially proud and full of himself and _above_ lesser mortals such as Molly. Molly wasn't as dull as Sherlock made her out to be. And she certainly wasn't ready to put up with this, not even from a man who was supposed to be dead.

'You're a right idiot, aren't you?' she growled angrily. 'Come in here at dinner hour, you've been thought to be dead for what, a year now? And you just stroll in here with that stupid smug look?' Molly hit him in the chest again. 'You always do such horrible things, Sherlock!'

'Molly, I-'

'No.' Molly shook her head. 'I don't care what you say. Did you think about the rest of us? Me, Mrs Hudson, _John_?' Molly looked into Sherlock's eyes angrily. 'He was heartbroken, Sherlock. Your death didn't just upset him, it devastated him. And you're thick enough to come back here thinking nothing had changed, that everything would be okay if you put on your _stupid_ "impressive" act?'

'Molly.' Sherlock's voice sounded similar to the way he'd spoken to her on the night before his 'death'. 'Perhaps I can't even begin to think what this year has been like for you, or any of the others. But please don't believe it has been easy on me.'

'Does John know you're alive?' Molly hated how pleading her voice sounded.

Sherlock shook his head. 'Tonight, perhaps. It's been...difficult. Trying to come back into...real life.' Sherlock sighed. 'There's a man after me, and John. I plan on letting him know, as soon as I'm able.'

'It won't soften things, him thinking you're protecting him,' Molly shot at him.

'Nothing will soften things, at any rate.' Sherlock turned to leave. 'John will always be my friend. I still have yet to find out how much he considers me one. And if, after this, he doesn't...' Sherlock sighed. 'I'll make do.'

 

 _This is going to be some bullocks prank_ Lestrade thought to himself. It would be some person trying to clear Sherlock's name, and then have made some mistake, Lestrade was resigning himself to that. Or this was a different person entirely, in which case, Lestrade most likely wasn't doing the safest thing by going to meet the bastard.

The lights were on in the first hallway Lestrade went in. His phone vibrated and Lestrade read the short text. _Downstairs_. Lestrade sighed.

The hallway was lit until Lestrade reached a doorway. Through it, it was dark, dimly illuminated by the light of the corridor he was standing in. Hoping this wouldn't lead anywhere he didn't want to,  Lestrade walked into the dark, open area.

'Okay, mind telling me what the hell this is?' he asked the open air in general. 'Would appreciate finding out who I was texting.' 

Five minutes passed and Lestrade was beginning to wonder if he'd been sent on a fool's errand. This was stupid, he was stupid to come, stupid to hope. He decided on texting whoever it was and leaving. Or so he would have, if he could've found his phone.

'This what you're missing?'

Lestrade spun on the spot at the sound of Sherlock's voice and only just managed to avoid his phone slipping between his fingers as Sherlock threw it to him. Feeling his eyes grow wide, Lestrade blinked, looking the should-be-dead man over. 'Jesus-Sherlock!'

Sherlock's mouth tightened into half a smirk. 'Evening, Inspector Lestrade.'

Sherlock looked the same. But older. More worn. As if he'd been through hell, and yet here the young man was, clearly not dead, and standing with his smart ass smirk on his face. Lestrade has seen Sherlock go through hell, and this was just another proof to the inspector that Sherlock Holmes seemed to be just as infallible as he pretended. And just as infallible as Lestrade knew he wasn't. But all the human-ness of the man right now was eclipsed by his apparent rise from the dead. The impossible miracle that stood in front of him. The how would come later, when Lestrade's tongue would be freed by tiredness, or the alcohol that he was sure to indulge in after this.

'Blimey you look tired,' Lestrade was able to say weakly, but still with a sardonic edge to his voice. Sherlock smiled lightly, which improved his hell-ridden features massively. Lestrade was glad to see that that tired face was still able to smile. Perhaps that man of excitement was still behind those haggard eyes.

'So do you,' Sherlock said lightly. 'It's good to see you, Lestrade.'

'Why the hell did you fake your own death? You just about destroyed John, you know, you stupid sod.' He saw Sherlock wince and said quickly. 'You must've had a reason-Moriarty?'

Sherlock nodded slowly. 'The two men at the yard today? I delivered them to your care before you or the chief super would get there. Moriarty sent them to kill you and Mrs Hudson in the event that I survived. I had to spend some time taking down some of Moriarty's men, and then they got word of me, so I knew it was time to put them in your care.'

'Why would he kill me and Mrs Hudson? Why not John, he was your best mate...'

'There's still a sniper out there. Sebastian Moran. Very dangerous. You'll find he was supposed to be in that hearse you're going to see after you leave here.'

'So ... he was supposed to be in the hearse but he's alive,' Lestrade said slowly.

Sherlock nodded. 'Wanted to seem dead. So he could kill John while I was gloating over his dead body.' Sherlock made a scathing noise. 'He made the mistake of getting a woman much smaller then him to replace his body-and a coffin too small to match. I'll text you where to find the woman after you've been to the funeral parlor.'

'Why not come with me?' Lestrade asked. 'You could help us solve this, and take down your man.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Dangerous for me to be seen. I don't know where Sebastian is, and I don't want him finding me first. He'll be looking for John.'

'John's going to be at a restaurant tonight,' Lestrade said promptly, and gave Sherlock the name. 'In...about an hour and a half actually. He told me yesterday. You've got more than enough time to get over there before Moran does.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Good...thank you.' He sighed. 'I need to get going.' He hesitated. 'After Moran is caught...I'll be disproven as a fraud. Between my bother's string pulling to reveal the real Moriarty, and the two men I dumped on your doorstep, and the fact that your chief is resigning at the end of the week...well...' Sherlock looked at Lestrade. 'I'd want to work with you again, if you'll have me.'

'You mean if you'll have me. I was the one who brought all that shit to my super.'

'That was Sally.'

'Yeah, she quit day after you ... died...by the way.'

Sherlock smiled thinly. 'All the same, not your fault. You did what you had to, the same as I.' He sighed. 'I need to leave. I will see you tomorrow Lestrade, if not tonight.'

Lestrade smiled and went back the way he came, out of the building. Everything wasn't right-he doubted it would all be right for a long time. But it would get there. 

He thought that maybe he should have told Sherlock about John. Lestrade shook his head. It would all work out.


	3. Snapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He'd once thought of his heart directly tied to his violin..._

Sherlock could hear the water running as he stepped into 221 Baker Street. He's smiled sadly when he'd reached the door of his old building; the doorbell was still broken. Mrs Hudson wasn't that careless; she mist have left it for sentimental reasons.

She was, however, a woman of some simple routines; just now Sherlock knew she was washing her dishes in the kitchen sink, and then would be ready to sit down watching the news or something else equally boring on the telly for at least an hour. He was never one for routine, and thought perhaps a change might be in order for his former landlady.

He'd meant to be quiet, but the door still made a noise when he closed it and Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson freeze by the sink, probably listening intently. He treaded carefully to her kitchen door and knocked once, suddenly feeling all too apprehensive and nervous. Molly had been angry, Lestrade cautious. Sherlock was beginning to admit to himself that he was afraid the two people he cared for most wouldn't find it in them to forgive him.

But Mrs Hudson opened the door, let out a silent scream and Sherlock held her elbow gently in case she were to collapse. He face was white with shock and he feared he'd done the wrong thing.

However, Mrs Hudson was a far stronger lady than most gave her credit for and she straightened herself. Sherlock was glad. His Mrs Hudson had gone through so much in her years. He respected her almost more than anyone and believed the day when he would see her break would never come.

'Oh Sherlock,' she whispered quietly. Then a small crease appeared between her eyes and she said in a much sterner voice after he'd stepped inside, 'Sherlock-William-' she slapped him across the face on the S of the next name, '-Scott-Holmes! You had us all so worried!'

Sherlock allowed a sad smile to play on his lips, and he raised a hand to his burning cheek, the other still gently clutching mrs Hudson's upper left arm. She pulled him gently into a hug, and he felt her small body heave with a heavy sob.

'I thought we'd lost you...' she sobbed quietly. 'Sherlock, how could you?'

'Mrs Hudson-' He gripped her tightly in the hug, and bowed his head, a surge of emotion welling up inside him. 'I am so sorry...'

'I didn't know what I was going to do, losing one of my boys like that,' Mrs Hudson said shaking her head, her voice stern. 'And John, poor John, and then he moved out and I just...' She trailed off and then took Sherlock by his elbows, standing back and looking into his face. 'You need to apologize to him, I hope you did, young man!'

'Tonight.' 

Mrs Hudson noticed his face. 'He'll forgive you. Though you know John. He won't take it lightly.' Mrs Hudson hesitated. 'Tonight at the restaurant? Then that inspector told you, right?'

Sherlock nodded. 'He told me where John would be, yes. I should be going now...' He looked at her. 'Again, I am so sorry.'

'I won't accept that unless you're moved back in by the end of the week. I had that brother of yours paying the rent for nearly a year now. Couldn't for the life of me figure out why.' Mrs Hudson shook her head. 'You two and your stupid antics,' she said her voice nearly shrill.

Sherlock smiled. 'I'll be in tonight...if you'll allow it.' He bent forward and kissed her on her cheek, hands on her shoulders briefly, and then turned out the door.

Mrs Hudson looked after him sadly before locking up. 'Oh Sherlock...'

 

'Sherlock, I looked up this Sebastian Moran, he's bloody dangerous, promise me you won't go after him without letting me know.'

Sherlock made a non-confirming noise into the phone as he gave the cabbie the address. He didn't quite plan on telling Lestrade-he knew he needed to, but Lestrade would get in the way, and Moran was Sherlock's. No matter what. This man had targeted John, and Sherlock wanted to be the man who beat him and brought him down.

'Promise me, Sherlock.' Sherlock heard the hesitation in the older man's voice. 'We can't have you dead again, now can we?' The tone of his voice suggested he was attempting to joke, but the strain in it made Sherlock fully aware of how pained Lestrade felt with even the thought of it. 

He hesitated.

'I'm going to see John in a few minutes. If I see Moran, I am doing everything in my power to take him down.' He swallowed heavily. 'I will text you as soon as I get a chance if I see him.' Sherlock sighed. He would work alone after this, he swore. He didn't want Lestrade or anyone risking their lives for him. The thought of it had always made him uncomfortable but now, after Moriarty using them to make Sherlock do the unthinkable, the thought of Lestrade or John getting hurt for his sake was unthinkable.

'Alright. I'm not bloody sitting on the sidelines while you get your arse beaten just to protect John.' Sherlock smiled as he ended the call. That sounded more like Lestrade. That however also didn't make him feel better.

But now wasn't the time to worry about that. Sherlock heart beat madly in his chest as the cabbie pulled up near the restaurant. As he stepped from the cab, all those days of planning, all the rehearsed forms of 'I'm so sorry, John' he'd played back and forth mentally escaped from his head. His great brain wasn't working overtime on the problem of what to say to John-it was busy working out every tingle of fear throughout his body that was saying 'John is going to hate you.'

The place was fancy and expensive, and Sherlock briefly wondered why John would be eating here-it was more than a bit out of his old friend's budget. 

'I'm actually meeting someone,' Sherlock said to the man as he walked in. Walked was an overstatement. He felt as if his legs were rubber, being carried by a wave that was taking him forward slowly and yet all too quickly. Everything was blurred as someone took Sherlock's coat, and Sherlock drifted forward, feeling quite blissful and full of fear until he laid eyes on John.

Older. Greyer. Seemingly more lines beneath his tired eyes, and Sherlock could read in his face that he hadn't slept the night before. Dressed way nicely. Mustache resting across his upper lip. Drinking a glass of wine. And conversing with an attractive woman sat opposite him.

Sherlock blinked and froze.

It wasn’t something he’d expected. A miscalculation, perhaps. Or an overconfidence in sentiment. Or maybe just blind hope. But all he could think was that maybe this ‘home’ didn’t mean anything more than that he was still-as he’d been years before John and the year previous this-inescapably alone.

He'd once thought of his heart directly tied to his violin-each thin tendril that kept his blood flowing and his emotions running (and those emotions did exist, however harshly they were kept locked away by hIs brain) a string of the violin, and as he played the instrument, his bow would run across his emotions and let them cry out freely, without him ever having to reveal anything besides a skilled and honest musician, who told truths with his notes rather than his words.

Right now, those cords were vibrating strongly, morosely. He watched, motionless, his legs unable to carry him away from what he was seeing as he saw John Watson, his friend, his doctor, his soldier, kneel down before the woman seated opposite him and present her with a ring. 

Some thin violin string in his heart just snapped, and for several dead heartbeats, he entertained the thought that maybe he should have jumped off the building after all.

The music wasn't playing-it was all out of tune and painful. For a brief panicked moment, Sherlock thought that something had actually snapped in his heart, that something painful was now killing him, and took comfort in the fact the John might at least care about him dying in front of him a second time.

But his old friend's head turned to Sherlock as the room clapped, having witnessed John's date accept his proposal, and Sherlock heard rushes of panicked violin notes, screeching, crying, screaming and pleading with him to move. But he couldn't. He couldn't tear his eyes away from John's blue irises, happy then puzzled, confused, sad, and then finally hurt and angry. Another string snapped in Sherlock's heart and he felt something blur his vision slightly. Tears. Tears, he was crying. He had no music to release this, he had no words to bluntly combat it, he had no feeling in his legs-

John was over to him in about half a heartbeat, his fist brutally colliding with Sherlock's nose, and the pain brought Sherlock back to the full reality. John was angry, he'd hurt John, John had hit him.

'Just-No. NO.' John was shaking his head, unable to get a sentence out. Sherlock backed up, nearly tripping. He felt a tear fall from his eye and in that moment, logic took over in his head. Finally. You're just different and you always will be. Walk off before he sees you crying. Get your coat, turn the collar up, hide behind it. Deal with this. This must not register any further with the generosity of emotion.

And Sherlock turned slowly, the look in John's face almost breaking him again. But he managed to collect his coat and walk out and John was being told to leave, and the woman's voice was saying John's name in shock. John would explain to her as they walked out the door, Sherlock knew. 

Sherlock stood outside in the cold, his face throbbing and blood drying under his nose. He hoped there would be a way to fix it. And, crushing his emotions so they wouldn't register on his face, he turned to face the door as it opened and John walked steadily out of it.


	4. Mary Morstan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't ready to see Sherlock yet, let alone forgive him.

Sherlock turned as the door to the restaurant opened behind him, and John and the woman walked out.

'John.'

'No. Not now.' John shook his head and never quite looked at Sherlock as he spoke. 'I can't do this. Not tonight. Not now. Understand why, Sherlock. You were _dead_. Try to be at least slightly empathetic and realise that some of us have human emotions. That your death...actually made some of us _care_.' He shook his head again.

If Sherlock was stung by that comment, he didn't react. He simply slid his hands into his pockets and kept his attention on John.

John hesitated. 'Tomorrow. Text me...or whatever. Just not now.' He looked briefly at Mary. 'Wait here; I'll get us a cab.'

Sherlock walked away and let out a heavy breath. Some more blood trickled from his nose and he breathed in painfully.

'He's a damn good fighter, isn't he?'

The woman (Mary. John's _fiancé_.) was looking at him, nearly smiling. 'Looks like he broke your nose.'

Sherlock tilted his head. 'I think he may have.' He wasn't one for social conversations, or any sort of familiarity, however, this woman was important to John. He extended his hand to her. 'Sherlock Holmes.'

She gripped his hand firmly in hers. 'Mary Morstan. Of course I've heard about you. Though how reliably I think a can question.' Still a small smile on her lips. 'You don't appear to be dead, as it is.'

Tempted to smile as well, Sherlock nodded. Then he accepted the handkerchief she handed him, mopping up some blood from his nose, considering that he actually did like this woman at the moment. She wasn't well off, but seemed smart, kind, caring and to have a sense of humor. As well as a love for John. 'He is a good fighter,' Sherlock said thoughtfully. John had been doing well in his absence. Better than expected.

'Mary!'

John had gotten a cab. Marry looked at Sherlock. 

'He does care for you, you know. You just hurt him, and now you've brought that back.' She sounded accusing. 'You'll have to prove you can fix that; you know he doesn't trust easily.'

Sherlock nodded, staring after her, thinking. Then he shook himself and hurried to the cab as she was closing the door. 'John!'

John looked over in surprise. 'I said not now.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Important. There's a man after you. Sebastian Moran. He was in Afghanistan as well. Expert killer.'

'I'll keep an eye out.' John met Sherlock's eyes for the first time since they'd gotten outside. He hesitated. 'Keep yourself safe until we can talk too, okay?'

'John.' John looked over at Sherlock again, and Sherlock looked into John's eyes. 'I am sorry.'

John closed his eyes. 'Tomorrow, Sherlock.'

Sherlock stepped away as the cab drove away. He lingered in the street for a while and then got into a taxi of his own.

 

He arrived at 221b two hours later, backpack slung over his left shoulder-containing a change of clothes and a few other personal items-and violin case in his left hand. Quietly as he could, Sherlock stepped into the building and was greeted by Mrs Hudson.

'Oh Sherlock...' 

'It's fine, Mrs Hudson.' She'd clearly seen the nose, even in the dark.

'You know that's not what I meant, dear.' She looked up at him with sad eyes. 

'Mary is a wonderful woman. Hopefully John will be very happy with her.'

'Why don't you come into the flat, I'll make you a cup of tea, we can sit-'

Sherlock looked at her and relaxed his back for what felt like the first time in a year. It probably was. 'Thank you, Mrs Hudson.' He gestured upstairs. 'I just need to clean up a bit.'

She nodded. 'Make yourself at home.' Then she chuckled slightly. 'Back at home, I should say.'

Sherlock smiled warmly and went upstairs. Everything, save for John's things, was still in the same space. He looked around fondly, and then set his bag on the sofa and went to the kitchen to wash his hands. 

He froze, his eyes darting over the surfaces. Someone had cleaned up his chemistry equipment.

A slight laugh issued from the base of his chest. It had been there long enough, his mess, Sherlock supposed. Both Mrs Hudson and John had always complained about it.

'Sherlock!'

He jumped and hurried downstairs. 'Mrs Hudson?'

Mary Morstan was standing in their hallway.

'It's John. He's not here is he?' She looked worried.

Sherlock felt panic mounting in his chest and swallowed heavily. 'No...'

Mary shook her head. 'He was supposed to call me when he got to his flat. I hope he hasn't done something stupid.'

Sherlock's thoughts skipped to Moran and he blinked. Then he rushed out the door quickly. 

'Wait!'

Mary was right behind him and pulled him back from walking into the street as a car came by. 'That man you mentioned...is he really dangerous?'

Sherlock nodded, firing off a text to John and then dialing the man's number and holding the phone to his ear. He felt like pacing around, but Sherlock didn't want to concern Mary if he appeared to worried.

But the phone was answered.

'John.'

'Sherlock,' John's voice was out of breath. 'That man, he wouldn't happen to have a shaven head and a nasty scar over his left eye?' John panted a few times and Sherlock heard sounds of traffic.

'Yes.' Sherlock's brain was rushing, his eyes flickered slightly as his ears strained to pick up any detail of where John might be. 

'Bastard's been after me for the last half hour. Shit...I didn't phone Mary.'

'She's here,' Sherlock said quickly. Mary looked at him. 'John, tell me where you are.' 

He jumped into the street before Mary could stop him this time, and the motorbike stopped before it was about to crash into him. 'POLICE!' Sherlock shouted, stepping over to the side of the bike and flashing the badge he'd swiped from Lestrade earlier. 'We need to use your bike, it's urgent.'

The man and woman stepped off and Sherlock got on, registering Mary sitting behind him and gripping him around his torso. 'Erm...'

'Just drive!' she shouted in his ear.


	5. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It had always amazed him how much of an impact the death of an individual could cause._

Sherlock's mind was racing. He was hoping as much as he dared that John was still alright. Mary's arms tightened around his chest and he forced himself to focus. Emotion would do him no good here. He just needed to think. 

The motorbike tires screeched as he pulled into the street that John had told him about. There was a grassy area surrounded by the road that had a large bonfire in it. Sherlock quickly dialed John's number and angrily shoved his phone back into his pocket when he didn't get a response.

'Stay out of the way,' Sherlock told Mary. Talking still felt unfamiliar. It had been nearly two years of silence for him, save spoken threats to members of Moriarty's web. Calm words were going to feel funny in his tongue for a long while after tonight.

'Like hell,' Mary muttered. Sherlock swung around to face her.

'This man is going to _kill_ John. If he happens to get a shot at you, he _will_ take it. You dead will lure John out and give him the perfect clean kill. Stay.' He turned back around slowly, scanning the grassy area and the cars outside it. Then he finally spotted John, crouching a distance away from the other side of the fire. Maybe he hadn't seen Sherlock and Mary yet.

Sherlock stopped himself from running to him. If Moran spotted either of them, they'd be dead fairly quickly. So Sherlock busied himself with trying to find Moran. It wasn't very hard for him to think strategically in most situations, but like in the case John had dubbed 'The Blind Banker', all Sherlock wanted was John to be safe.

It wasn't long before he did. There was a glint of something to his left. Sherlock sent a one word text to John-Run-before his swift footfalls carried him to the car that Moran was positioning behind, setting up a shot.

Sherlock put his hand on the hood of the car, launching himself over the front of it. Moran turned quickly and reacted swiftly, swinging his rifle intent on hitting Sherlock-but Sherlock already had his other arm raised in protection. He let out a grunt as the metal hit him, but managed to land on top of Moran, kicking the weapon away.

'Sherlock Holmes,' Moran spat, before gripping Sherlock and attempting to fling the man off him. Despite being shorter than Sherlock, he was still very strong. Moran seemed as built for hand to hand combat as he was equipped for a gunfight. 

Hitting the pavement, Sherlock managed to raise himself quickly and tackle Moran to the damp grass just as the assassin was pulling another gun from his coat. They wrestled with it for a while before Sherlock and Moran had both stood, gripping Moran's hand that was clutching the gun. Moran broke free and hit Sherlock in the face, sending him reeling towards the fire as Moran ran off.

Mary had grasped Sherlock by the upper arm, dragging him away from the fire slightly as he regained his composure. Sherlock shook his arms to adjust his coat and then ran after Moran. Before he could even catch up, John had hit the man, sending him to the ground. Sherlock dove after Moran's gun and as Moran was standing, Sherlock took a step over to him, jamming the point of the gun under Moran's chin violently, his finger on the trigger, gripping Moran's left arm with his other hand so Moran wouldn't move.

'Give me one reason not to,' Sherlock said through clenched teeth, tasting blood from his lip from when Moran had hit him. Moran glared up at him.

'Go on. Coward Sherlock Holmes,' Moran hissed. 'Show how bloody great you are.'

'He's not just a great man,' John said loudly from where he stood with Mary. He wasn't looking at Sherlock, only Moran. 'He's a good one too. You're lucky he is or you would never walk away from here.' 

'Damn right he is,' Moran spat at John. Sherlock snarled at him, pushing the gun into Moran's throat. 'He didn't even tell you he was alive, did he? Some good man that is!'

'Shut up!' Sherlock shouted.

'Sherlock!' It was Lestrade, jogging over with a few officers. 'You can drop the gun, we've got him!'

Not looking away from Moran, Sherlock yanked the gun away and stepped back to let Lestrade's men handcuff Moran. Then he slowly walked over to John and Mary. 

'You would've killed him,' John said quietly, and Sherlock couldn't tell if his friend was angry or not.

'He would have killed you.' Sherlock studied John's look. 'It's what you would have done, years ago.'

John cleared his throat. 'Right.' He gestured to Sherlock's lip. 'You're bleeding. Again.' Sherlock shrugged and John sighed. 'Maybe you owe me an explanation sooner than tomorrow.' He turned to Mary, his hands on her arms. 'Are you alright?'

She nodded. 'Yes. Since you are. You two go talk. There's a long story behind Sherlock's return. I'll text you when I get home.' She kissed him on the mouth. 'And you better call me tomorrow.' Her eyes lingered on John's. 'And if whatever he tells you isn't on your blog by the end of the week, we will have problems, John Watson.' 

John smiled faintly as she turned to Sherlock. 'It was a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock. I expect to be seeing much more of you.'

Sherlock smiled faintly and shook her hand before she departed.

'You better not talk yet,' John warned, when Sherlock opened his mouth. 'I'm not through being angry at you. I don't know when I will be.' He sighed. 'Where are we going?'

'Baker Street.' Sherlock registered John's look of shock. 'I made an appearance to Mrs Hudson before...seeing you.'

It was silent in the cab. Sherlock pretended to be looking out the window and thinking as he counted the number of times John sent discreet looks at him. Sherlock supposed John was still shocked to see Sherlock beside him. If Sherlock were honest, he would admit that he felt the same way about John.

Everything had changed, and yet the things that remained the same were incredible. Sherlock had missed the cab rides so much. He wondered when he'd be permitted to sit beside John in one and not feel like an outsider. 

Mrs Hudson opened the door and immediately swept John into a hug before reading his face and making a noise of understanding. 'I'll try to have tea made in a little while; you boys head upstairs.' She put her hand on Sherlock's upper arm briefly before she went back to her flat.

John was looking around in the hall sadly and Sherlock realized that John must have not been back in a while. Mrs Hudson had given John a very fond hug because John was probably returning to her just as Sherlock had.

It had always amazed him how much of an impact the death of an individual could cause. 

'You've missed this.'

John turned on him, and his face read grief and anger. 'I have a life now.' John sighed and Sherlock heard in the pause the words John had left out. _Without you_. It was an admittance, but Sherlock also heard the excuse. One that said 'I don't think I can do this again.'

But Sherlock had seen John, his John who had missed the war, John who had chased down the cabbie with him, and ran through the battlefield with him. Sherlock pressed on. 'Hitting Moran, running away from him, running to help, fighting the battles...' Sherlock tried to contain a grin of excitement. The high of the case was still upon him-Donovan was right, he did get off on this, but this was a way better high than the drugs ever gave. 'The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins- _Just the two of us against the rest of the world_.' Crime was common, logic was rare. And someone like John Watson was even rarer.

And John swallowed heavily, the lump in his throat he was trying to get past nearly visible. Sherlock didn't have any idea if he could say anything more to convey how he felt, but before he could've so much as said John's name, John had his arms around him. 

He was too thin, John would realise that. And as Sherlock relaxed into John's arms, hugging him back fiercely, Sherlock realised that this was healing. There would be more, so much more. But this was the first step to it.

'I missed you,' John said. And Sherlock tried to pull away to see John's face, but John kept a hold on him tightly for a few more seconds before releasing him.

'Come on then.' Sherlock lead the way up the 17 steps, like he had years ago, when he and John had come to 221b together for the first time. It had been one of many firsts, and now the two of them were going through a whole new set of them. The limp that John had had back then had returned slightly, but John was still able to keep up on the stairs. New beginnings.

They both remained standing. Something unspoken between them had decided that this would not be a comfortable conversation. 

It was a long time before John finally spoke.

'You were dead.' John looked Sherlock in the eye. 'I took your pulse. And it was definitely you.'

Sherlock paused for a moment, watching John's face, and then from his coat pocket, withdrew an object and bounced it on the floor.

John watched in confusion as Sherlock tossed it to him, and caught it, a look or surprise on his face. 'A ball?' he asked, disbelievingly. The unspoken 'that's all?' hung silently in the air.

'Yes.' Sherlock took a breath, tilting his head and going into his quick speech pattern that meant he was explaining something. 'It's an old illusion trick-I learned it when I was only a kid.' He reached out when John gave him the ball. Sherlock put it under his right armpit and and squeezed it between his arm and his body tightly. 'Put pressure on it and it stops the pulse. I was on my right side when you found me, arm pressed firmly against the ground. Doctor's will normally check your throat for a pulse, but the only bit of me you were able to reach would be my hand.' Sherlock blinked. He didn't like thinking back to Bart's that day, and by the look on John's face, John wasn't happy with the reminder either. 'Check.' Sherlock made an effort to keep his voice normal, despite hearing echoes of John's crying voice over the phone.

And John felt his wrist for a pulse, his face shocked. Sherlock put the ball down on the desk.

'Okay. But how. Bart's is what, 70ft? I saw you...I saw you fall. I saw your body on the ground when I rounded the corner, before some cyclist hit me...' But Sherlock shook his head once swiftly. 

'Not my body, no.' He frowned slightly. 'You weren't hit by a cyclist either.'

'Then what-?'

Sherlock took a breath. 'I knew Moriarty wanted to have absolutely discredited me. My suicide would do that. Having realised this, I chose the place where we would meet for our final encounter. Saint Barts. I met with Molly first, asking her for access to certain drugs before sending her with a message to my brother. He owed me for giving up information about me to Moriarty. I knew you would follow me up to the roof, so I sent you away by arranging a fake phone call to lure you back to Baker Street.'

'You sent it?!' John asked angrily.

'I had to.' Sherlock looked at John. 'Then I went to the roof. Moriarty and I talked. I was able to get information on what his plans were. I had to die-to complete his story. And to force me to do so, he would kill you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't.' Sherlock gave a slight nod at John's look of shock. 'I believed I could make him tell me how to call off his gunmen. Apparently, so did he. He...He shot himself in the mouth.' 

He took a deep breath. It had not been something he'd wanted to see. He'd seen bodies, but never someone shoot themselves right in front of him. He'd seen suicide victims, one that he'd known, but never had someone died right before him like that. Sherlock pressed on quickly, hoping his face and voice were devoid of emotion. 

'I phoned you. I... I ah...I knew that I didn't want the last time for us to have spoken for what may have been forever to have been our conversation before you left Barts. Call it sentiment....' Sherlock sighed. 'I told you I was a fake. I wanted you to believe it. If Moriarty's men had any thought that you would be able to prove I was real, or if they'd had any inkling that I;d faked my death, all three of you would have been killed.' He looked at John. 'It wasn't me you saw fall.'

John swallowed. 'So what happened? Did Molly hide you somewhere? Did Mycroft get you a body? Did Mrs Hudson know? Did everyone know BUT ME?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'No, John. Molly only gave me a drug. Mycroft was the only one who knew. He found a body that we could basically let fall off the roof. Then I took the drug Molly gave me when I got back inside Barts. While I was passing out, you were being drugged by a member of my homeless network. You probably saw a cyclist before or after you'd stood up. You wouldn't have known how much time had passed; to you it would seem like you got knocked down for a few seconds and then saw my body up close. I was dragged out, drugged and unconscious, by Mycroft's people. The fake body was dragged away.' Sherlock looked at John sadly. 'It was a trick, John. Just a magic trick.'

'Trick or not, that had bloody real life effects, Sherlock, I hope you're realising that. Lestrade faced crap at work, Mrs Hudson was traumatised, Molly was crying. I...I didn't know what to do after you died. You can't just do things like this, Sherlock.'

'Sentiment?' Sherlock asked. John snorted.

'Yes, bloody sentiment. That chemical defect.' John looked at him. 'I need to get to bed. I need to think this over. But you've got to know, Sherlock, things aren't the same. Things might not ever be the same. You couldn't trust me with this, as your _friend_ , I'm, gonna have a bloody hard time trusting you. At all.'

Sherlock blinked. 'Yes,' he said quietly.

And John took one last look at him. 'I'm glad you're alive. I just don't know if I'm glad that you did this yet or not. And DON'T lecture me about how I would have died.' And he walked out before Sherlock could say anything more.

Things had changed. And Sherlock was left to sit in silence.


	6. Epilogue

'Are you angry with him at all?' John asked, looking over his coffee miserably at Lestrade. He hadn't slept the night before. He also hadn't met with Lestrade in far too long.

'Well, yeah. Of course. That was some stunt he pulled, and it caused all of us alot of grief. I'm mostly mad at him for your sake, mind, but...' Lestrade sipped his coffee and met John's eyes. 'Can you imagine if he hadn't done what he did? He wouldn't be able to work, he'd have probably been in jail, we'd all be facing too many consequences for him "being a fraud"...' Lestrade studied John carefully for a while. 'He'd have slipped up. He'd have most likely gone back to how he was long before you'd met him. And that...that would have been worse than what he did here.'

John shook his head. 'He never talks much about before he met me.'

'And for good reason. He wasn't himself until he met you.' Lestrade looked at John. 'Listen, I know Sherlock, but you know him better than I do. And I know that he's gonna need you. And you need him.' John blinked and Lestrade tilted his head. 'I think you should trust him again, even if it's as little as you need to pull yourselves back from all this.'

Lestrade rose and shrugged on his coat. 'I will phone you-both of you as soon as my next case comes in.'

 

Sherlock strode over to John, who was seated on a bench, watching people walk by, and stood in front of him for a moment, before John gestured for him to sit. Sherlock complied and kept a slight distance between the two of them.

It was silent for a long time.

'This is where it all start, did you know?' John asked thoughtfully. 'I was walking here, Stamford recognised me. We got coffee from the Critereon and sat on this bench. And he told me that you needed a flatmate.'

Sherlock waited a beat before looking at John. John was looking ahead. 

'I did miss this. All of it.' John sighed. 'And I've always trusted you, save for when you said you were a fake. And now...' John looked at him. 'I want to go back to that. But things can't be exactly what they were. Too much has happened since then.'

'Yes.' Sherlock was quiet.

'For one thing,' John said, shifting a little and trying to hide a smirk from Sherlock. 'For one thing, it can't just be the two of us against the rest of the world. I've got Mary now.'

Sherlock chuckled and John smiled.

'That's true, isn't it?' Sherlock smiled thoughtfully. 'It's never been just the two of us, but it's always felt that way. It probably always will.'

John nodded. Then he looked at Sherlock. 'Lestrade wants us on his next case.'

'Thought as much.' Sherlock's phone beeped with a text. He read it swiftly and looked at John. 'And there's the man now. Ready?'

'God, yes,' John said.

And they ran.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd been working on this fic ever since season 3 ended. I really wanted to write a fic about how Sherlock survived, and what the return might be like. Some things from the trailers were used, and a couple scenes were based off of a couple photos from the set that have been going around (the bonfire and the bench). I'm not sure how he survived, but I'm pretty sure it involved some kind of body switch (Benedict's video for comic con I think told at least some of the truth).  
> Any comments would be appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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